Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “A mistake?”

  I realize instantly that the real mistake was using that word, which was obviously an incredibly bad choice. “No—Cam, listen, I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “I know exactly how you meant it, lass,” he says bitterly, blowing past me. He’s out of my apartment, across the hall, and slamming his door before I even have a chance to get another word in edgewise.

  I stand there for a long time, fighting the urge to run across the hall and throw myself into his arms, but eventually I give in to the inevitable reality of the situation and go back to bed, dragging the covers up over my head.

  Mr. Bingley jumps down, wanting nothing to do with me.

  I’m still in bed at five o’clock that afternoon when the phone rings. I pick it up with a dull “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey! Merry Christmas!”

  “Hey, Mom. Merry Christmas. Eve.”

  She laughs. It sounds like California: bright, beautiful, breezy. “I know I’m a day early, but we’re going over to your sister’s tomorrow morning and staying over. You know how crazy it gets over there with the kids. We probably won’t get a chance to call.”

  I know she doesn’t try to be mean, but it’s times like this I have to bite my tongue from saying something bitchy like You mean won’t make the time to call.

  Jacqueline and her husband, Jack—don’t get me started on that alliteration—have two-year-old twins. Their names also start with the letter J, because my sister’s astrologer told her the energy would be good. You wouldn’t think Satan could inhabit two bodies at one time, but boy, would you be wrong. The amount of projectile vomit and green snot those kids produce belongs in an exorcism movie. As do their screams, which could scour paint from the walls. I have no idea why my mother is so desperate to add more of the little monsters to our family, but she’s of the opinion I won’t truly be happy and fulfilled until I’m a mother.

  Or a size two.

  “Oh, we got your packages in the mail yesterday, sweetie! Thanks so much for that cute mohair scarf.”

  Cute is her code word for hideous. We enjoy sending each other gifts that we know the other one won’t like, because mother-daughter relationships are minefields and murder scenes and a whole bunch of other super things like that.

  “And thanks for the new Grumpy Cat calendar you sent me, Mom. Can’t wait to get that sucker up on the wall and spend another year staring at his constipated face.”

  “That reminds me, honey—have you heard anything about your promotion?”

  My stomach sinks because I know she’ll freak out when she hears I’m going to be fired. But then, out of nowhere, I have a moment of pure epiphany. Another fuck this shit kind of clarity, only way bigger.

  It really doesn’t matter what my mother thinks about anything.

  Wow, I had no idea how heavy that particular piece of baggage was until I dropped it.

  “Yeah, bad news on that front,” I say. “My boss—you remember Michael, the one I told you I was in love with years ago and you said he’d be perfect for Jacqueline?—turned out to be a major douche canoe and tried to feel me up in the ladies’ room at the holiday party. Apparently that promotion was a kind of pay-to-play deal, and I wasn’t playing. The office is closed until after New Year’s because of the holidays, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be fired first thing when I go back.”

  My mother squawks, “What?”

  “Bummer, right? You might want to make up the spare bedroom for me. Oh, also? Cameron McGregor invited me to go back to Scotland with him. We’re having some kind of confusing sexual relationship I’m really not emotionally qualified to handle, but I knew you’d be interested to know he’s incredible in bed.”

  I hear a thud and wonder if I just killed my mother.

  Christmas might not be so bad after all.

  Only it is, because I spend it entirely alone, eating cold barbecue beans from a can I scrounged from the depths of a cupboard and drinking a bottle of cheap Syrah while staring morosely out my living room window with only a deaf, judgmental cat for company.

  The irony isn’t lost on me that I named him after my romantic “ideal” of a man. Mr. Bingley was everything Mr. Darcy wasn’t: polite, charming, popular. Even after it turned out in the end that Darcy was more than just a brooding alpha-hole—that he was, in fact, a man of incredible character and depth—I always thought the Mr. Bingleys of the world were preferable, because who really wants to deal with all that smoldering machismo when you can have a light and fluffy marshmallow of a man?

  An idiot, that’s who.

  December 26 dawns to a blizzard, which is convenient because it matches my mood. I decide to spend the next few days watching all the holiday movies I hate as punishment for a) wasting ten years loving the idea of Michael Maddox and b) ruining a perfectly good friendship with Cam by having wild, uninhibited sex with him, falling in love with him, and then immediately freaking out. I’m deep into my third rewatch of It’s a Wonderful Life when the knock comes.

  I freeze, a handful of microwave popcorn in my fist.

  The knock comes again. It’s Cam’s knock, but it’s different, because it somehow sounds somber.

  I put aside the bowl of popcorn and go to the front door, my heart hammering like mad. When I open up, Cam is standing there in jeans and a T-shirt, looking as devastatingly sexy as ever.

  We stare at each other. The first thing out of his mouth is, “I can’t believe you didn’t wish me a merry Christmas, you dick.”

  “Well, we sort of weren’t talking, I thought.”

  He scowls at me, a lock of hair flopping attractively into his eyes. This goes on for a while, until he sighs and curses under his breath. Then he reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and produces a key. He thrusts it at me. “Here. In case you want to make any more mistakes before I leave.”

  Filled with trepidation, I look at the key, which is apparently to Kellen’s apartment door. Oh God. Oh no. Don’t do it. Don’t make this any worse than it already is.

  But of course I take it. I’m stupid, but I’m not insane.

  We look at each other in uncomfortable silence for a few moments longer, until Cam says, “Okay. So. See you around. Or not.”

  He spins around and stalks back to his apartment, slamming the door just so I know that even though he’s inviting me to come over whenever I want for more mind-blowing sex, he’s still mad.

  I stare at the key in my hand, wondering how long it’ll take before I use it.

  I last an entire day, which I think is pretty good. Actually, it’s a few hours more than a day, because when I find myself unlocking Cam’s apartment door, it’s a quarter after nine o’clock the next night.

  All the lights are out except for a small reading lamp burning dimly in the living room. For a moment I wonder if he’s not home, but then he comes out of the bedroom and heads right toward me, looking angry and scary and hot.

  He picks me up in his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world and heads back into the bedroom.

  Staring at his profile, I whisper, “Why are you naked?”

  “I sleep naked.”

  “You were asleep?”

  “No. Now shut up.”

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  “Yes. Now shut up.”

  I shut up. He tosses me onto the bed like luggage. I bounce, breathless, and try to sit up, but he isn’t having any of my smart ideas. He pushes me down and kisses me, hard, a knee wedged between my legs and his fingers twisted in my hair.

  I melt like butter into the mattress.

  “I’m kickin’ you out after,” he says, breathing raggedly and pushing my skirt up my thighs. He drags my panties down my legs. “And don’t you dare ask me any personal questions.”

  Oh, he’s so mad at me. He’s furious. God, that’s a turn-on.

  He doesn’t bother taking off my shirt and bra or getting me ready with foreplay—not that I need it, since I drenched my underwear the minute I saw him—
he simply sheathes his erection in a condom and angrily shoves it inside me.

  I arch and moan and fall in love with him a little bit more.

  He fucks me hard. Like he’s trying to prove a point. I clamp my fingers into his biceps and wrap my legs around his back and hold on for the ride. When I’m moaning and panting and just about there, he slows, growls “not yet,” and kisses my throat.

  “Please, Cam,” I whimper, grinding my pelvis against his, desperate for release.

  Then I’m on top of him, flipped around and straddling his face, manhandled into the position he wants me, his hard cock jutting inches from my mouth.

  He commands, “Suck,” and buries his face between my legs.

  I gasp and buck, shocked when his tongue plunges deep inside me. He spreads both hands over my bottom and makes a meal of me, licking and sucking until I can’t catch my breath.

  I get a warning smack on my ass when I leave him unattended too long.

  I wrap my hand around his shaft but stop before taking him into my mouth. I don’t fancy a mouthful of latex, thank you, so I roll the condom up his length and toss it, then take the engorged crown of his cock between my lips.

  He sucks in a breath, then lets it out as a moan that vibrates all the way through me. My eyes literally roll back into my head. I lick his erection from base to tip, tonguing over the veins and thrilling when he throbs in my hands. Then I start a rhythm, sucking and stroking, faster and faster, his tongue working between my legs until I think I’ll pass out.

  Cam digs a hand into my hair and pulls, making his cock pop out of my mouth. “Wait,” he pants, gasping for air. “Fuck. Wait.”

  We’re frozen like that for several moments, until he regains control of himself. Then he presses the gentlest kiss right onto my clit. When I shudder, he laughs, a dark, satisfied sound that thrills me like nothing I’ve ever known. But I’m not about to be outdone, so I swirl my tongue around the head of his cock and am rewarded by a groan that could win a porn Oscar.

  Then it becomes a game of who comes first. Also known as a win-win.

  We go back and forth, slowly, taking turns. First he licks and suckles me for a moment, then stops as I lick and suckle him. When I cheat and begin to languidly stroke his balls, he cheats by slipping a finger under my bra and tweaking my throbbing nipple. I take him down my throat, all the way to his base, and he slides two fingers inside me and circles them.

  When my entire body is shaking and I’m sweating and cross-eyed, I break first.

  “I need to come, Cam.”

  “So come.” He goes back to licking.

  “Come with me.”

  “Like this, or . . . ?”

  I’m glad he asked, because suddenly I’m needing eye contact. This game is incredibly hot, but I’m craving more—I’m craving him. I want to go over the edge looking into his eyes.

  Damn. I knew I was gonna regret this.

  I climb off him, get another condom from the bedside table, and get him all wrapped up. Feeling satisfied with my technique, I smile at his erection.

  Cam grabs my arms and flips me over so I’m on my back, looking up at him. Easing between my legs, he says gruffly, “Is this want you wanted?”

  I nod, biting my lip against a moan. He slides inside me, and God, it’s good.

  But he doesn’t go fast and hard again. He goes achingly slow, cupping my bottom in one hand, cradling my head in the other, propped up on an elbow and staring down into my eyes.

  Swamped with emotion, I inhale a hitching breath. He smiles, but it’s achingly sad.

  “Go ahead, luv,” he murmurs. “Tell me it doesn’t matter. Tell me it’s all a mistake.”

  I have to turn my face away because I don’t want him to see the tears gathering in my eyes. When I finally do go over the edge, he’s right there with me, groaning my name and twitching inside me, carving his name into my heart the way Michael never did.

  So this is love. Man, it’s even worse than Christmas.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The mechanics of love go something like this:

  Birdsong in the air and your heart in his kiss,

  Eyes meet, breath catches, a sparkle of lust

  A pulse of pure joy and an aching you must

  Pursue against logic; that small voice in your mind

  Warns of goblins and trapdoors and things you might find

  Your beloved will do that will irk and grow boring

  Like farting and lateness and that god-awful snoring.

  But your heart insists on its impossible dream

  Until one day you wake to find a terrible scream

  Trapped in your throat with nowhere to go

  And you think back on that time which seems so long ago

  When your love was a bird, flying high on the wing

  Not this dry little crust of a shriveled-up thing.

  “Well, that’s one for the Romance Hall of Fame,” I say aloud, examining with alarm the poem I’ve just completed. It’s not even a proper sonnet, just a bunch of depressing rhyming verses that could be handed out as warnings to couples in premarriage counseling. Here, see what you have to look forward to? Do you really want to sign up for this?

  I scratch a big X through the whole thing and slam my sonnet book closed.

  It’s January 2, the day after New Year’s. Tomorrow I go back to work to get fired for being the office slut, which is really unfair considering when it came time to earn my title, I opted out. Only it didn’t look like I did, which is all that matters.

  Also tomorrow, Cam leaves for Scotland. Every night since he gave me the key, I’ve been going over to his place for some hot, angry sex and leaving feeling a little worse than the day before.

  We’re not talking, except to discuss which position we should switch to next. We’re not working out together. We’re not having dinner together. We’ve been reduced to the worst of all possible worlds—fuck buddies, without the buddies part.

  The sex is incredible, but I really miss my friend. I miss laughing with him. I miss everything.

  It’s my fault. I know it’s all my fault. I slipped and fell on his magical dick and ruined everything.

  I’m too depressed to even look through the help wanted ads. Nobody ever finds a job like that, anyway. I spend a number of hours dejectedly browsing through online recruitment sites but inevitably end up opening a bottle of wine and attempting to drown my sorrows. Spoiler: it doesn’t work.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, I’m on my third glass of wine when the phone rings. I don’t answer it because it’s either my mother . . . or it’s my mother. Michael hasn’t tried to contact me at all. No emailed apology, no “Oops, I was drunk” text, no nothing.

  I’ll admit it: that hurts. I mean, it twinges. It doesn’t feel anything like what I feel when I let myself dwell on what will happen to me when Cam is gone and I’m forced to admit my life is a giant stinking poop emoji without him.

  I know I’ll eventually find another job. But there’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever find someone else like Cameron McGregor. I just hope it’s a few years before I pick up the paper and see a smiling picture of him and his beautiful wife and their perfect babies, because I need a little time between now and then to convince myself I’m not really in love with him.

  Like, ten, twenty years.

  A few moments after the phone stops ringing, the flashing red light on the machine tells me I have a voice mail. With nothing better to do, I decide to find out who it is.

  “Joellen, this is Portia.” A delicate throat clearing, then she begins anew. “From Maddox Publishing. I wanted to wait until after Christmas to call. As you know, ah, the staff will all be returning to work tomorrow.” Long, ominous pause. “Please meet us in the boardroom as soon as you come in.”

  Us? The boardroom? Well, I suppose that’s as good a place as any to get canned after ten years of dogged loyalty. It has the best view. Though I’m righteously furious I’ll be getting fired for something I didn
’t do, I’ve been around long enough to know how these things go.

  Men are never punished as severely as women for breaking the rules, because men made all the rules in the first place.

  I do have one ace in the hole, though. If I don’t get a decent severance package and a reference letter, I’ll sue for wrongful termination. Sure, no one will believe me and I’ll still be out of a job, but a lawsuit might make Michael Maddox think twice about shoving his hand up some other poor sap’s holiday dress that she couldn’t really afford.

  I don’t understand why Portia didn’t just fire me over voice mail, but I’ve got personal things at my desk I want to pick up, so I’ve got to go back in anyway.

  But then things take a turn toward the unthinkable when I unlock Cam’s door later that night and he’s already gone. I know this because he left an envelope for me on the kitchen counter marked with my name. Inside is a note:

  I’m shit with good-byes and we’re not talking anyway, so I’m skipping that part and staying at a hotel tonight.

  My offer was serious. It still is. My door will always be open for you.

  Yours until the sun flames out and all life on earth is extinguished,

  Prancer

  Included with the note is a first-class ticket to Scotland.

  I sit right down on the kitchen floor and cry until I’m sobbing like a baby, curled up into a ball with the note clenched in my sweaty fist.

  In the morning, I’m a zombie. Or might as well be, for all intents and purposes. My insides are all mush. My brain has rotted. I can’t think, I can’t eat anything, and I certainly won’t be able to string a coherent sentence together in my defense when I get into work.

  Cam’s gone. He’s really gone. I feel dead but also like I’ve been hollowed out by knives, lit on fire, and tossed into a vat of acid. How do people survive this?

  I share the elevator up to the thirty-third floor with Denny, who must be spooked by my appearance because he’s quiet as a kitchen mouse. All I get is a tepid, “Morning.” Which suits me fine, because in my current state of mind, I’m liable to commit murder if confronted with a fart joke.